


18+

by honeyno



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 2019 World Figure Skating Championship, Birthdays, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Mila's the best bro, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor pain play, Porn with Feelings, gender stuff, mentions of eating habits CW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:31:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyno/pseuds/honeyno
Summary: “Are you not having a great day? It’s your 18th, that’s a huge deal!”Yuri sighs. There’s absolutely no point in trying to not talk to Mila, she’ll just keep pushing if he attempts that, and his head hurts just at the thought of it.“I’m pretty sure Otabek forgot.”(or, Yuri turns 18, alone.)





	18+

**Author's Note:**

> happy belated birthday to my main man Yuri Plisetsky 
> 
> i make a throwaway reference to his middle name, which in Russian is derived from your father's name but since we don't know that, i just used Grandpa Plisetsky's.

Eighteen doesn’t feel any different because Yuri watches the clock strike midnight alone in his bed. He’d probably be asleep if it weren’t for his longtime tradition to just see the date change on his phone screen and just like that — another month, another year, done, and Yuri’s older.

He screenshots the date and time while it’s still a shiny 12:00AM, and the digital shutter sound gets Potya to jerk in her spot near his thigh. She makes a small sound as she turns to stare at him, and it’s probably meant to be accusatory but Yuri takes it to mean _happy birthday._

“Thanks,” he nods, and reaches to pet her while she settles back down.

His phone lights up a few more times and it’s all posts he’s tagged in from people he doesn’t know, birthday wishes in several languages that he should probably be touched by. He’ll favorite them all in the morning, and likely thank everyone for their time and kind words, because if he doesn’t, the internet would talk, and he doesn’t need that.

Truthfully, Yuri doesn’t really care about any of those posts, not because they’re not extremely nice but because they’re not —

It’s three in the morning in Almaty.

The twist in Yuri’s chest isn’t really disappointment that Otabek hasn’t called at the stroke of midnight as much as it’s general disdain for distance and time zones and their stupid fucking schedules and the knowledge that Otabek has to be awake in under three hours so to expect anything from him right now would be selfish and unfair. So really, it’s not any different from any other night. 

Yuri’s eyes are closing again when the phone chimes one last time and he forces one eye open to look at the screen. It’s a text from Mila, 

> **_мила (12:05:36)_ **
> 
> _[birthday cake emoji] [orange heart emoji] [thumbs up emoji]_

 and while someone else might see that as borderline emotionless, it makes Yuri feel just a little bit lighter and he drifts off, appeased, into a short, insufficient sleep.

In the morning, he talks to Grandpa on the phone while scarfing down oatmeal, and then when he gets to the rink Yakov shakes his hand entirely too officially and mutters something about Yuri Being A Man Now (which, Yuri thinks, is questionable, and nothing to do with age to begin with) before telling him there’s no time to party and to warm up and hit the ice.

Yuri’s done with his laps of edge work around the rink and marking his way through combination spins when Mila shows up and, immediately, skates over to him with her arms spread comically wide to her sides. He’s being hugged and showered with birthday wishes before he can as much as draw a breath in to protest.

“My little boy, all grown up!” Mila sighs melodramatically, and places another loud kiss on Yuri’s cheek. “You feel ready to gamble? Vote? Buy seven cars and drive them all?”

“All of that, yeah,” Yuri nods, making just enough of a show of rubbing his freshly kissed cheek in mock disgust. 

“What’s going on?” Mila asks, and she fixes him with a knowing look as her voice shifts from ‘overexcited auntie’ to ‘Mila who’s never once been wrong about Yuri’s moods’. “Are you not having a great day? It’s your 18th, that’s a huge deal!”

Yuri sighs. There’s absolutely no point in trying to not talk to Mila, she’ll just keep pushing if he attempts that, and his head hurts just at the thought of it

“I’m pretty sure Otabek forgot,” he says instead, gritting his teeth to keep his voice from wavering or, God forbid, breaking. He’s a grown ass man, apparently, after all. Mila’s face drops and she gives him a look that’s usually reserved for botched free skates and placing fourth behind Christophe Giacometti at Internationaux de France.

Yuri swallows and keeps going before she can say nice and thoughtful and absolutely infuriating, “—which, how the fuck would he _forget_ ? Has he just not looked at social media all morning? Every single person who’s ever taken a picture of me’s remembered to post that, the _fucking ISU_ posted that horrible picture from 2016 _Nationals, Mila—_ ”

“Yeah, that picture’s pretty bad,” Mila agrees, and she’s holding back a smile which makes Yuri kind of laugh despite himself. He makes some stupid half-giggle, half-sob sound and rolls his eyes.

“This is stupid.”  
  
“It is. I’m sure he’s just… busy or whatever. You know he’s not the biggest social media person,” Mila reasons, giving Yuri’s bicep a light touch. “But he doesn’t really forget stuff, right?”

Yuri shakes his head, frowning.

“He could’ve _texted,_ ” he insists, and Mila doesn’t seem to have a reasonable rebuttal for that.

 She sighs, pats his arm again and finally glides away from his personal space as she attempts to switch topics,

“Who’s the box from?”

“What box?”

“Oh, you didn’t see it? Looks like baked goods or something, it’s on the bench,” Mila shrugs, motioning vaguely off the ice. “I thought maybe Yakov was being weirdly nice—”

“Yakov gave me a _handshake,_ ” Yuri shakes his head, which cracks Mila up as he skates towards the exit to check out the box.

It’s strange that he missed it while he was warming up. It’s a square box, bright yellow cardboard, with his name scribbled on the lid, black marker and an unfamiliar handwriting. There’s also a small card tucked under the blue string that holds the box closed.

Yuri steps off the ice and sits down to open it, ignoring Yakov’s distant yell,

“I _see_ you, Yuri Nikolayevich, and a birthday is _no excuse…_ ”

There’s a single cupcake inside the box. It looks like chocolate with buttercream frosting, and it’s topped with star-shaped sprinkles and actual, honest to god flakes of gold. That’s probably also sugar, just thin enough to resemble tinfoil.

Yuri stares down at the cupcake. No one he knows is thoughtful enough to plan a delivery to the rink, not even Otabek, and his best bet is that Mila actually snuck it in for him and was playing dumb to cheer him up. When he glances back to check if she’s watching, though, Mila’s working her way through a step sequence, completely uninterested in his actions.

Yuri sighs and pulls his gloves off so he can unpack the tiny envelope and read the card. He steels himself for disappointment — worst case scenario is that a fan who was clever enough to know he’d be at practice sent it to the rink — and turns the card over to read the message. It’s typed up, the way delivery instructions always are, in an unassuming, impersonal black font.

>   _yura,_
> 
> _call me when you get this_
> 
> _love, o_

For a split second, Yuri is terrified that he might actually start crying this time, just out of sheer relief. Of course Otabek hasn’t forgotten. _Of course_ he somehow found a way to outdo himself and orchestrate this whole thing, and it makes sense now that he didn’t call because that’s how surprises get _kept,_ and Yuri’s too smitten and caught off guard to still be mad at him as he pulls his phone out and dials Otabek, Yakov’s frustrated yelling be damned.

Otabek picks up almost immediately, with only Yuri’s name and a quick _hello_ before Yuri cuts him off,  

“You _know_ I can’t eat that until after Worlds, you idiot,” and okay, perhaps he’s still just a little mad.

On the other end of the line, Otabek laughs. It echoes a little and Yuri imagines he must be in his locker room, probably done with session one of the day, resting with his laces undone before it’s time to move again.

“Freeze it,” Otabek says lightly. “Give it to an admiring junior or something, I don’t know. I just wanted to make sure you had cake.” 

It’s really the simplest sentiment but something about it catches in Yuri’s chest and tugs, and it feels worse than falling asleep alone, somehow.

“Fuck,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say, and then picks off just one of the star-shaped sprinkles to try. “Um. Thank you.”

“Happy birthday, babe,” Otabek says, and if Yuri wasn’t preoccupied with keeping his composure he’d probably find it in himself to make fun of the way Otabek has clearly planned and practiced this entire conversation. It’d almost be cheesy if it were anyone else. 

But it’s Otabek, and Yuri’s temples are pounding when he closes his eyes so he can focus on his voice. 

“This fucking sucks.”

“Hey, I’ll see you in a few weeks, right? And I got you cake!”  
  
“I’ll be busy trying to beat you in a few weeks,” Yuri argues stubbornly. “It’s not fair. You should be here to eat the stupid goddamn cupcake with me _today._ ”

Otabek’s laughing again and frankly, Yuri could keep whining if that’s what he gets in return.

“I know, I know. Wish I could be there. I’ll get you another cupcake in Saitama, how about that?”

“I swear to god, if this is some plan to _Hansel and Gretel_ me before the event, I’ll be so mad at you I won’t even—”

This time, when Yakov shouts at him, it sounds much closer because he’s finally left his office and he’s marching over to probably pluck Yuri’s phone away with his own bare hands.

“That sounds serious,” Otabek observes through another almost laugh. “Go, call me on your break.”

Yuri sighs, and promises that he will, and he doesn’t get a chance to say any of the other things he’d like to because then Yakov does snatch his phone, and uses it as a pointer as he wordlessly gestures towards the ice.

Yuri doesn’t get his phone back, or a chance to really rest, until much, much later, when he’s worked through both of his programs enough times to forget what not feeling just slightly dizzy feels like, or that there is a life outside of repeating the same combo jump over and over again until Yakov seems decently pleased with every single tiny, miniscule detail of it.

Yakov gets one last run through of his short program out of him with a promise that if it’s satisfactory, Yuri will be done for the day just a little earlier than usual, which is the closest he’d probably ever get to a real birthday gift. It’s enough of a motivator and Yuri nods wordlessly as he skates back to his starting position.

The music kicks in, all heavy, dark electric guitar that’d had commentators everywhere questioning where Yuri had been heading in the beginning of the season. A quiet, triumphant voice in his head reminds him that _this_ is where he’d been headed for months now: to near exhaustion, to training for Worlds. 

There’s that, and the fact that he’s currently under three minutes away from being done and able to call Otabek again. So Yuri bites back a smirk, focuses, and pushes into the opening pivot with just as much intensity as he’d give in front of a crowd and a judging panel, and works his way through the choreography right on the edge between technical figure skating perfection and crowd-surfing at a rock concert.

He ends on his knees, spinning backwards with his head thrown back on sheer inertia, and Yakov cuts the end of his music short with an,

“Alright, alright,” that’s as close to a compliment as he’ll come this close to competition, just out of fear that his skaters might start feeling too confident. “We’ll work on that lutz entry first thing tomorrow. Go home, rest.”

Yuri doesn’t need to be told twice. He grabs his hard guards and phone from Yakov in one fluid motion as he steps off the ice, and only waits til he’s back in the hallway to dial Otabek. 

He picks up almost right away, and Yuri launches into a full blown tirade about how his phone had been held hostage as he makes his way back to the locker room.

“Okay, but did you have a good practice?” Otabek asks, and he sounds amused, even when his voice goes weirdly distorted an echo-y over the phone. 

“Yeah— hold on— say something, you’re breaking up I think.”

“Hi, Yuri, I’m really glad you had a good practice,” Otabek rambles on, still sounding all doubled and strange and Yuri feels a flash of anger at all technology in general, because _all_ he wants is five minutes on the phone with his boyfriend, uninterrupted, god damn it.

“—and I really think you should probably pay attention to where you’re going and look up.”

Yuri hadn’t even realized he’s glaring down at the fronts of his boots like they’re personally responsible for his connectivity issues. He doesn’t realize he’s following instructions as they come, either, and then he doesn’t really realize there’s no way Otabek could know where he’s looking, until he’s glancing up automatically and—

Otabek’s sitting on the narrow bench in front of his locker, smiling proudly as he lowers his phone from his ear and Yuri freezes in his tracks to stare at him. He’s tired, sure, but not nearly exhausted enough to be hallucinating.

“What the fuck.”

Otabek laughs and stands up to tuck his phone away in his back pocket.

“Come on, you really thought I’d settle for sending you a _cupcake_?” he asks, shaking his head at Yuri as if that’s somehow more unreasonable than traveling to another country three weeks before the biggest competition of the season.  

“I thought you _forgot,_ you asshole,” Yuri says quietly, and then he closes the distance between them in two strides until he’s close enough to get his hands on Otabek.

The lockers make a loud giveaway noise when Otabek’s back hits up against them, and Yuri snickers into his mouth before kissing him again.

“You made me fucking believe you forgot about me—”

“You think too much.”

Otabek’s hands land on the small of Yuri’s back and he tugs just a little, and Yuri finds a way to get himself even closer, lodging a knee between Otabek’s.

He’s still in his skates and Otabek’s wearing the beat up sneakers he always travels in, so Yuri’s a few inches taller and delighs in it, takes advantage of pulling back just enough to stare _down_ at Otabek, for once.

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathes, and Otabek confirms the assumption with another long, thoroughly devastating kiss.

“Jesus, hold on,” Yuri whispers eventually, pressing his open palm against Otabek’s chest as he draws away. “Let me— I gotta change. And then we’re getting the fuck out of here.”

It’s almost surprising when Otabek agrees to that and lets him go with just one more quick kiss, so Yuri can compose himself and take care of his boots and they can leave.

“Hands to yourself,” he warns as he starts changing out of his practice clothes, and the laugh Otabek gives in response echoes wonderfully in the room, and all the way between Yuri’s ribs.

It’s dark and quiet outside when they leave the arena. There’s snow along the sidewalk but it’s been a few days since it really snowed so it’s all half-melted, dirty, and starting to freeze again as the evening gets colder. 

“I can’t believe you came,” Yuri says, turning a little to stare at Otabek, who’s walking right beside him painted orange in the streetlight. “How did you— you’re supposed to be training.”

“I got Aliya to call Yakov and she was very convincing,” Otabek shrugs. “They agreed I can work here through the weekend.”  
  
“You got _Yakov_ in on this?! And your _coach?_ ”

“I told her I’m so terribly sad that I can’t be here that I can’t focus and my work will suffer,” Otabek says, perfectly deadpan. “Popped a bunch of triple toes to prove it and all.

Yuri laughs, and it ripples out from deep in his belly, which almost startles him. It’s been a while since he’s really laughed like that, despite Mila and Katsuki’s best efforts.

“That’s ridiculous.”  
  
“I wasn’t lying. I _was_ terribly sad.”

Otabek raises his hands to blow warm air on the fingertips poking out of his fingerless gloves and Yuri watches him for a second, silent and helplessly in love. Then, he takes Otabek’s hand in his, laces their fingers together, and sticks both of their hands in the pocket of his oversized coat. 

The corner of Otabek’s mouth twitches up, only a little, and he squeezes Yuri’s hand in return.

“You really popped triples?” Yuri asks, and somehow manages to get it out without cracking up. Otabek nods. “That’s— the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

“Nicer than flying to Moscow to surprise you?”

“Definitely nicer.”

Otabek rolls his eyes and stops walking, forcing Yuri into a standstill as well, just so he can turn and risk a kiss. It’s quick; chaste, almost, and his nose is cold when it bumps against Yuri’s but the street is empty and there’s no one to stop them, and he indulges, for a second.

“This is nice too,” Yuri amends softly when he pulls back, smiling. “Come on. I wanna be home.”

 

Yuri’s apartment is warm and the light in the living room’s been left on. Potya ignores Yuri’s hello and goes straight to rubbing against Otabek’s leg until he picks her up and says something to her in Kazakh as he settles down on the couch. Potya meows in agreement.

“What was that?” Yuri asks.

“Secrets,” Otabek says, perfectly serious, and then turns to talk more at Potya, which gets Yuri to groan dramatically.

“Can’t believe you’ve taught _her_ before me—” he grumbles, and then instructs Otabek to heat up dinner while he showers. It all feels strikingly familiar, like that last week they’d stolen to hide from the rest of the world back in September never really ended. It also feels like that could have been a decade ago, as easy as the routine is to settle back into.

Yuri returns from his shower with his hair damp and twisted up into a bun at the top of his head, and they share dinner on the floor by the living room table while Yuri makes a huge deal about how this has messed up all of his meal prep for the rest of the week and is just incredibly inconvenient and horrible, until Otabek pokes his bare thigh with the handle of his fork and warns gravely,

“I could leave, you know.”

But he doesn’t, and instead eats steamed veggies and rice next to Yuri in wonderfully peaceful silence. When they’re done, Yuri sighs deeply and leans back to rest his head against the couch, closing his eyes.

“You tired?”

Otabek keeps his voice quiet, and it’s barely a question because Yuri’s entire posture screams exhaustion. He should say yes, probably, and get them both to bed so they can at least rest a little before Yuri’s unforgiving 6:05am alarm. Otabek must be tired, too, from travel and sneaking around the arena. But it’s still technically Yuri’s birthday, and Otabek’s side is warm and solid against his own, and he’ll be damned if he calls it a night before midnight, tonight, of all nights.

So Yuri draws in a deep breath and wills his body to just bear with him a little while longer as he opens his eyes.

“Fuck no,” he says, keeping his voice soft to match Otabek’s. The silence between them hangs heavy like the moment between lightning and thunder, and stretches for a few long, electrifying moments, and then he adds, “Come here.”

It’s the only prompting Otabek needs. He nods, like he knows better than to argue with that, and twists around to place a hand at the curve of Yuri’s neck as he kisses him. Yuri makes a low sound into it and reaches to grip the front of Otabek’s shirt, tugging until he gets the hint and shifts to straddle Yuri’s thighs.

There’s a sigh that could have been either one of them, half-lost in the fraction of distance between their lips.

Then Yuri slips his hands under the hem of Otabek’s shirt and trails terribly light fingertips up his back, and the next groan is distinctly Otabek’s as he lowers his head to kiss along the line of Yuri’s neck, right where it tenses under the touch. Yuri draws in a sharp breath and leans his head back permissively, and when Otabek gives the skin above his collarbone just the tiniest hint of teeth, he whispers some profanity and rolls his hips.

He’s well on his way to hard already, and barely dressed, and above him, Otabek is wearing too many clothes. Yuri drags his fingers back down Otabek’s back, making him shudder, til he can grip the hem of his shirt again, this time to just pull on it impatiently. Getting Otabek undressed is a collaborative effort, and Yuri grins triumphantly when he tosses his shirt to the side. He’s still smiling when he leans in to press his lips against Otabek’s sternum, which is conveniently right at the level of Yuri’s face, and then over to the left, over the slope of muscle where children always assume the heart must be. 

Yuri lingers, breathing against Otabek’s skin for a second, until he whispers Yuri’s name and places both hands at his jaw to guide him back up and in for a long, breathtaking kiss. He licks his way into Yuri’s mouth as his hand slides across the back of Yuri’s head and up to knot through his damp hair, and all Yuri can do is give into it with his hands gripping at Otabek’s sides to anchor him there.

“Beka,” Yuri whispers when pulling back for air becomes unavoidable. “Take me to bed.”

Otabek nods wordlessly but it takes a moment to get his body to cooperate. His knee pops when he pulls himself up and Yuri laughs, groaning dramatically as he follows suit. 

“Almost there,” Otabek promises, teetering between teasing and equally dramatic as he leads the way towards Yuri’s bedroom as if the apartment is his own.

The bedroom is dark, save for whatever light from the street makes its way through the half cracked blinds, and Yuri apologizes for the mess by saying he wasn’t exactly expecting company.

“I really don’t care,” Otabek assures him quietly, and Yuri smiles, feral and promising, as he nods,

“Good,” and pushes him down onto the mattress. 

He holds a finger up as if to say _wait_ and Otabek makes a show of clasping his hands at the back of his head and not doing anything except watching as Yuri takes off his shirt and slides his boxers down his legs. Yuri barely gives him any time to appreciate the view before walking over to pull Otabek’s jeans and underwear off with the same amount of silent, hyper focused determination.

Once Otabek is bare in front of him, Yuri draws in a breath and his eyebrows knot upward as he studies the large, vicious bruise that covers Otabek’s thigh. It’s really no different than his own legs, and nothing they’re not used to, except this one is big and dark and must hurt like hell. Yuri’s almost reverent as he settles with his knees around Otabek’s leg and then leans down, runs careful fingertips over the bruise first, and then his lips.

“Bad day, the other day,” Otabek whispers in way of explanation as he gets his hand back in Yuri’s hair. Yuri nods and kisses the bruise again before making his way across Otabek’s thigh, to its inner side and then up to the juncture with his hip. 

“Been working hard,” Otabek carries on, and Yuri’s about to ask him why the fuck he’s suddenly inclined to discuss his training regimen right as Yuri reaches to wrap his fingers around his cock, but then Otabek adds through a groan, “Can’t just _let_ you win—”

And okay, Yuri knows a challenge when he sees one.

He rolls his eyes as he wets his lips and then his mouth is on Otabek without a second’s warning and whatever else Otabek might have planned to say gets lost in a sharp, staggered sound. Yuri sucks him off methodically, like he’s got a point to prove, using the low noises Otabek can’t hold back as guidance. He waits until Otabek sounds completely lost in the sensation to take him as deep as he can go, and then presses his fingers into the bruise, just hard enough to get Otabek to curse sharply above him. He repeats the motion one more time and this time Otabek hisses through his teeth in response as he grips Yuri’s hair just a little tighter and tugs. 

Yuri releases his cock with one last drag of his tongue along the underside, and then licks his lips demonstratively as he blinks up at Otabek.

“Fucking unbelievable,” Otabek whispers as Yuri crawls up his body to lean down and kiss him. Otabek gets his hands on Yuri’s ass and Yuri can’t help rolling his hips into it, which gets Otabek to exhale a laugh into his mouth before pulling back to say, “Turn around.”

He nudges Yuri until he settles on his side and Otabek can comfortably slot himself behind him. He trails his hand all the way down Yuri’s side, across his ribs and down to his thigh before sliding it between them to get to his ass.

Yuri draws in a shaky breath and then says in a rush, as if that’s somehow the one secret he’s perhaps just a little embarrassed to tell,

“I prepped in the shower, I—” 

“Fuck,” Otabek groans, and he sounds a little winded as he twists around to get the lube from Yuri’s nightstand before reaching two fingers to see for himself. “God. Of _course_ you did.”

Yuri sucks in a breath as he pushes back against Otabek’s fingers and Otabek feels rather than seeing him shrug,

“I didn’t wanna wait.”

Otabek curses again and only works on opening him up just a little more, just to be smart, and then twists back to grab a condom. Yuri squirms impatienty while he gets himself ready and Otabek finally stills him with a solid open palm in the center of his chest as he aligns himself and pushes inside him.

Yuri meets the initial stretch with a soft, high moan as he arches his back and rests his head against Otabek’s shoulder. He can’t really move much like that so he allows Otabek to take charge as he sets an excruciatingly slow, thorough pace. It lets Yuri really feel every single tiny shift of his body and it doesn’t take long until it gets to be almost too much, in that overwhelming way which makes Yuri feel like his bones are hollow and light like a bird’s and the only thing keeping him from falling apart is the weight of Otabek’s body behind him.

He rolls his hips back to meet Otabek’s thrusts and then his voice breaks around the edges as he sets off to whisper encouragements that come on, he can take more, and don’t be fucking nice, and _faster_ , _come on._

Otabek grips his thigh and pulls it up just enough that the new angle lets him obey the demands and he fucks into Yuri harder, drawing a loud, completely broken noise out of him. Yuri lets his head drop forward and Otabek trails kisses down the exposed back of his neck, more hot breath and stray touch than anything remotely purposeful. He’s sucking a small mark right under the first notch of Yuri’s spine when Yuri cries out again and this time it’s Otabek’s name and it sounds like a warning. Otabek drops his thigh and reaches around to grip his cock, letting Yuri thrust shallowly into his hand in an attempt to match his rhythm.

Yuri throws his hand back blindly and claws at the skin of Otabek’s thigh as he chokes off half a warning and then he’s spilling into Otabek’s fist, whimpering something incoherent that sounds vaguely like _thank you_ and _don’t stop._

Otabek doesn’t; he bows his head down to bury his face in the crook of Yuri’s neck and picks up his pace until he loses control of it as he chases his own release with a few final sharp, uneven jerks of his hips. Yuri is still working through his aftershocks when Otabek comes with one last hard thrust, and it sends a shiver through his entire body that Otabek meets with a low, winded groan of Yuri’s name.

Everything goes very still and very quiet, then.

It’s a couple of minutes and not until it starts to get cold that Otabek pulls back, carefully, though it still makes Yuri wince. Otabek kisses his shoulder to soothe him and whispers. 

“Hold on, okay, I’ll only be a minute,” as he gingerly slides off the bed.

He returns an entire eternity later with a warm, damp washcloth he uses to clean Yuri up once he gets him to _at least_ roll over to his back and make this easier. Yuri laughs through it because he still feels just a little high, and because he can. When Otabek gets back in bed, mercifully pulling the covers along with him, Yuri rolls over again, this time to wrap both his arms around Otabek’s frame, sliding one leg possessively between his calves.  

“So— did you have a good birthday?” Otabek asks quietly as he settles comfortably against Yuri’s chest. 

Yuri’s grip around him tightens just a little, and he shifts to press a lingering kiss to his neck.

“Best one yet.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm never on tumblr/pillowfort these days so honestly just yell at me about this in the comments, it truly makes my day.


End file.
